She tried.
She kneeled at the edge of the old, torn up couch and tried her hardest to pray. She really wasn't sure who or what she was praying to, exactly, but she needed to breathe. Gemma noticed she was doing less and less of that breathing thing lately.
The words flew threw her head like lighting, each one striking her.
I don't know what to say here. I've messed up. Really, this time she's not coming back.
It was 24 hours since Tara died, and in her hands. She looked at the man sleeping soundly on the bed across the room, the blankets covering Wayne completely. Yesterday when Gemma had stepped out of his truck, walking towards him, her eyes so filled with guilt it put a pit in his stomach, he knew.
He knew.
She played him. She didn't need her heart pills. Damnit, he shouldn't have let her get away. Get into his truck. Drive to Jax's. He shouldn't have let Gemma put a meat fork through Tara's skull. But Wayne knew it wasn't his fault. He loved Gemma too much to believe she could ever do something like that.
But even now, he would ask no questions.
Gemma layed on the couch in Wayne's old trailer, breathing in and out. She was completely numb. Her thoughts consumed her.
No. She was a rat. It had to be done. A rat always deserves to die.
But she then felt a pain in her chest near her heart and wet tears strolled down her face, a reminder.
Her son's wife and the mother of her granbabies was gone.
She murdered her daughter in-law.
Tara is not a rat. But it's too late now.
Tara is dead and cold.
And this time,
she's not coming back.